


black night doth take away

by fade131



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dragons, M/M, fall festival, jongdae and minseok are very much in the background here sorry, too much description probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21853042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fade131/pseuds/fade131
Summary: Was he not meant to enjoy himself? Surely, there was some motive for inviting him here,and he was not, in his own opinion, well suited for it, but he could be charming and interesting when called upon, and Yifan was an agreeable enough companion for a night.
Relationships: Kim Jongdae | Chen/Kim Minseok | Xiumin, Park Chanyeol/Wu Yi Fan | Kris
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34
Collections: Round 3: Autumn and Winter - On the Snow





	black night doth take away

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt Flake:** #117  
>  **Author's Note:** To the prompter, I hope I did this some sort of justice. And to everyone, I hope you like it.

The palace springs from the mountainside like a collection of stalagmites, a grove of spiral towers reaching toward the sky, all intricately carved and adorned. Chanyeol has never seen anything quite like it, thinks of icing sugar and fairy castles, thinks of piling dribbles of wet sand by the ocean as a child, thinks of the gossamer fine lace that adorns his mother’s dresses and the brilliant gold and opal inlay the palace jewelers had set in the pommel of the dagger he had given his father last year – a thousand little pieces coming together to shape something magical, something bright and airy and strange. The mountain itself looms high above, topped with a dome of clouds today, obscuring the dusting of snow on its peak. And below, clustered around the palace within circles of descending walls the city huddles close against the mountainside, as if drawing near the castle for warmth.

"Looks a bit precarious to me," Jongdae points out idly, and Chanyeol tears his eyes away from it finally.

Their procession had been traveling for near a month now, to reach this point, although much of their ride had been quite leisurely. Within the borders of Chanyeol's father's empire, they had meandered from town to town, feted and celebrated, staying nights with local nobles and generally enjoying themselves to the greatest extent they could. But they had crossed the strait into the Wu Kingdom a week ago – Jongdae had complained bitterly the entire two days they were aboard ship – and since then it had been a more subdued affair. Chanyeol did not quite mind – he did not need to be greeted or cheered, although he certainly had never tried to stop his people from celebrating him. But there was something more somber about this land than his own.

"I’m quite sure it's firmly up there. You needn't worry, anyway, we'll bed you down in a nice stable—"

Jongdae throws something at him – a peach pit, Chanyeol thinks, laughing brightly and spurring his horse to race ahead, Jongdae cursing and giving chase until they reach the head of the procession, and the master of the guard gives them both a look of askance that does nothing to stifle Chanyeol's smile.

"Your Highness, please try to stay within the party. It is your own safety that concerns me..." he starts, droning on, and Chanyeol has to fight not to laugh.

Finally, he claps a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, heavy padding and mail beneath his soft riding gloves. "I'm sure we're in no danger here," he points out, genial. "I am an honored guest of the Kingdom, and we shall reach the Palace before nightfall. No need for worry."

There is some grumbling, more admonishments, and he and Jongdae are swallowed up by the surrounding guard, Jongdae muttering bitterly still and trying to right his armor.

"Some knight you are," Chanyeol teases lightly. "You'll have me assassinated in no time, and then what will poor Master Lee tell my father?"

Jongdae huffs, but it's good-natured, easy. "Probably that you fell off your horse and did yourself in. Such a terrible tragedy, but we all knew it was a matter of time, what with the poor, sweet Prince being such a clumsy oaf, monstrous and uncoordinated—" Chanyeol scoffs "—and riding that beast, a horse more fit for a Giant than a man—"

He keeps talking, teasing, as their party wends its way down along the pass, the royal road hugging close beside the mountain range until it reaches its goal, the capital city of the Wu Kingdom, resting at the base of the tallest mountain in the chain.  
They do reach the palace before nightfall. Chanyeol is glad, because the sunset over the valley is a sight to see, painting the brilliant white spires of the palace in the same reds and golds as the autumn forest below and giving a fiery life to the city crowded around it. Here, as they pass through – three gates, and the main road widening slowly as they get further in, markets and merchant stalls, inns and public stables along it at first, slowly giving way to the homes of nobles, carefully manicured gardens and quiet fountains, until they reach the gates of the palace itself. They are immense, the bright white stone shining and smooth in the evening light, the doors themselves lacquered red and gold and depicting some battle or other that Chanyeol should probably recognize – he does not, but there is a terrible dragon dominating one section, golden fire pouring from his jaws.

Up close, the palace is no less impressive. It is covered, every inch, in elaborate and flowing decoration, and Chanyeol is all but transfixed by the beauty of it, stone carved so smoothly as to imitate rushing water here where a landscape is portrayed, or the delicate diaphanous drape of silk where a group of ladies climb a mountainous stair, trees springing up around them with leaves so intricate they seem almost to flutter in the breeze. Chanyeol wonders idly if the decoration truly continues all the way up the tall spires above them.

They are greeted and welcomed as is appropriate, by the Queen and her court, her son Prince Yifan standing stiff at her side. Chanyeol takes advantage of the familiarity of the situation – he knows their customs, smoothly polite and warm as he exchanges greetings, easy for him to simply fall into his role while his eyes and thoughts are occupied. The Prince, after all, was why he was here – it was ostensibly by Yifan’s invitation that he was attending the Fire Festival, something that had been proposed as a matter of cultural exchange and warmer relations between their two homes. Chanyeol had of course readily accepted, waving off even his sister’s concerns (marriage, she had hinted, frowning under her flashing diadem, picking at the heavy brocade on her dress, he was the second child and would be expected to make a good match, but she didn’t think Prince Yifan was – well, she had heard – he laughed her off, easy and warm, and told her not to worry about all that – what would be would be) and now of course he was here, and Yifan was just as severe and serious as when they had met before, his robes red and black and embroidered with gold, long hair caught back in an careful plait, even the strands that fell to frame his face seeming purposeful and planned. His greeting to Chanyeol is just as polite and carefully distant as last time, although Chanyeol thinks he catches the ghost of a smile on Yifan’s lips when his own greeting is warm and friendly, comfortable.

He is excused then, to refresh himself and change out of his traveling clothes before tonight’s welcoming feast, and he is led by servants into the Palace, his men dispersing to make sure the horses and luggage are all taken care of. His rooms are up a few floors, and the servant explains gently at his prompting that like all the best rooms, he will have an incomparable view of the valley and the city below, and that yes, the Prince’s own apartments were also here, just down the hall. She leaves him easily once he assures her that he has everything he needs – he explores the rooms first.

They are lovely, opulent, befitting his status certainly, a bedroom and dressing room, a sunroom to take visitors in, all full of lovely furniture and warm soft rugs on the pale stone floors, the cool walls covered with tapestries. The bed alone is worth his attention, an elaborately carved wooden canopy inset with screens depicting the mountain range as well as other features of the kingdom, rolling hills and beautiful ocean views, all beautifully painted. He goes out onto the balcony from the bedroom, taking a moment to enjoy the view – the handrail is carved as the curving branch of a tree, so near to life that Chanyeol wonders for a moment if the castle is bewitched, reality made stone beneath his touch. When he comes back in, Jongdae is there, cleaned up and changed into something suitable, deep blue silk peeking from the slashes in his brocaded doublet, dagger strapped to his belt, and he frowns when he sees Chanyeol hasn’t done anything.

“Really, your Highness, must I dress you to?”

“Isn’t that your job, as my gentleman?” Chanyeol teases. The servants have brought in his trunks now, though, so he bustles about to clean and change, picking green and silver (his colors, and anyway everyone always said it looked best with his hair).

“Hardly. Well, and what do you think? Not of the castle, either, I’ve no interest in you rambling on about architecture,” Jongdae warns, idle, arranging himself on the settee as Chanyeol changes for the feast.

“I think he’s very serious, much as he was when he visited us last, do you recall?” Chanyeol responds, smiling thoughtfully, remembering – it had been at the summer palace, and Prince Yifan had joined them for a week at most, for the hunt. He had hardly smiled, but he had said he enjoyed himself, and certainly that meant something?

Jongdae scoffs. “I do remember. I don’t think it explains his invitation.”

“Perhaps he enjoyed my charming company.”

“You, charming? Highly dubious, your Majesty, more likely he was shocked at how coltish and ungainly—”

“That,” Chanyeol remarks, stepping back out from the screen, straightening his cuffs, “is quite enough of that. Is this well enough for a welcoming feast? I would hate to be underdressed…”

Jongdae sighs and waves a hand at him. “You’ve never been underdressed, and you certainly aren’t now.”

Chanyeol narrows his eyes at him, frowning just softly, thoughtful. “And is that young man here?” he asks, knowing he needn’t be more specific – Jongdae had made fast friends with one of Prince Yifan’s court when they had visited, and Chanyeol was reasonably sure they had ever kept in touch in the intervening time. Certainly, Jongdae had been the first (only) of his gentlemen to readily volunteer to accompany him on the trip.

Jongdae’s cheeks redden, which is more than answer enough for Chanyeol. He doesn’t wait for whatever cutting response he’s about to get, just grins and goes to the mirror to fix his hair, asking Jongdae airily about his rooms, amused when he huffs and answers, sounding annoyed. Success in the little things, Chanyeol thinks, is worth enjoying.

They head down to the feast soon enough. He is seated beside the Prince, for which he is easily grateful – Yifan might not be particularly talkative or demonstrably friendly, but he was well worth talking _to_ , in Chanyeol’s opinion. And over the course of a long meal, perhaps to his own imagination, it seemed Yifan would… soften. Perhaps there was more hint of a smile at Chanyeol’s rambling conversations, and if he heard soft laughter from the other Prince at his foolish jokes, well, that sent a thrill of victorious excitement through him, and…

Was he not meant to enjoy himself? Surely, there was some motive for inviting him here, and he was not, in his own opinion, well suited for it, but he could be charming and interesting when called upon, and Yifan was an agreeable enough companion for a night.

He thinks, of course, back in his rooms, that he would have wished for a little reciprocation. Everything here, as he had suspected, was stuffy and formal, and he had been officially introduced to the court, and had to meet more nobles and royal family than he could count, and though Prince Yifan had been less restrained than his family and court it was only by fractions. Chanyeol thinks idly that he’d love to see a smile from him, hear him truly laugh, and he falls asleep with those thoughts.

Maybe that’s what brings on the dreams, although he could never guess.

They’re in a field, all soft grass and little purple flowers, and Chanyeol knows this place, the summer palace in the distance (a low long building, all airy and open, wide windows and white columns, his father’s standard flying atop it). Their horses graze nearby, relaxed although he can hear the hunt in the distance, in the green-black smudge of forest out past where they sit, a blanket spread on the grass, Yifan’s hair unbound, and Chanyeol reaches for him impulsively, but Yifan’s eyes catch his and there’s a fire burning there behind them, raging wide and bright, threatening.

“You can’t,” he says, his voice quiet and low, a simple statement of fact, and Chanyeol’s hand drops, but he’s distracted by the heat, the flames not just behind Yifan’s gaze but spreading, a brilliant red conflagration surrounding them and they’re standing across from each other now in the heat of it, Yifan’s red and black robes swirling in the hot wind, sparks dancing around his long hair like a halo.

“Yifan…” Chanyeol murmurs, tighter, quiet, stepping closer – not sure why or what to do but wanting to reach him, thinks he must try and reach him, especially when Yifan’s eyes register confusion, surprise, and there are wings behind him, something dark and immense stretching out like it means to take flight – but when Chanyeol gives it his attention, Yifan vanishes in the swirl of flame, replaced by the Dragon, massive and horned, eyes blazing as surely as the inferno surrounding them, and it opens its mouth in a roar—

And Chanyeol awakens, panting, his bedclothes sticking to sweat sticky skin. The cool fall air is still blowing gently in the half-open doors to the balcony, and he gets up to go stand out there, thinks – the breeze will help him clear his head, and he leans against the cold stone of the balcony railing, breathing in the night air.

The next few days there are preparations, more business, and Chanyeol is his best when he is representing his parents, his sister, his country, focused and thoughtful as he discusses trade and policy with the Queen and her advisors. Prince Yifan is, as Chanyeol has come to expect, relatively silent, but his attention is sharp and fixed, never really leaving Chanyeol through their talks. It’s nothing that hasn’t been discussed before, but Chanyeol flatters himself to think it goes relatively well, that some small concerns are smoothed over and eased, despite his coming here being, so far as he knew, for no burgeoning political reason beyond warmer relations. Jongdae is scarce, too, in part because he is not important enough to attend such meetings, and Chanyeol suspects he has other things to do – catches him and that young man with the icy gaze kissing in an alcove one evening after a particularly long meeting, and shoos them away laughing, Jongdae’s ears burning red.

The nights, too, go much the same. His dreams of Yifan grow more vivid, through no doing of his own, moving wild in tone and content – tonight simple quiet discussions, a softened glow of nostalgic familiarity surrounding them, an echo of their daily meetings yet more intimate, private, in his own rooms here or sometimes back home; the next the swirl of raging flames and Chanyeol trying, more determined than ever, to reach Yifan before the Dragon comes down and he vanishes; and then the next, pressed up against the cool stone wall of his temporary rooms, Yifan’s long fingers tangled in his hair or wrapped around his throat, a knee between his thighs as they kiss, and these dreams make the days that follow them just a little more difficult, Chanyeol just a little flustered, a little quicker to laugh, smiles freer as if they’ll cover up the lingering heat in his skin. Was it normal to have such dreams? He had not dreamt of Yifan when they met before, but then, they had hardly known each other then, had gotten to speak just briefly really, had…

Perhaps, he thinks, it is his sister’s suggestions, tangling up in his mind with everything else. She had suggested ulterior motives, after all, she had hinted the purpose here was marriage, and not something more benign. He shakes the thoughts off.

“Are you heading to bed so early?” Yifan’s voice comes, low and serious, behind him, and Chanyeol – who, after a long evening of meetings and a quiet supper, had been wandering the castle with absolutely no aim or goal – turns around, startled and smiling.

“Nay, your highness, I am simply exploring.”

“Ah, I will not bother you, then, with—”

“It is not bother. Walk with me? Or, perhaps, show me where would be best to walk. Do you have a favorite route, after dinner?”

Yifan’s lips press together a moment, and Chanyeol does not take in his carefully braided back hair, or the harsh angle of his brows, or the black robes he wore tonight. “Come, there is a garden,” he says, holding out an arm, polite, and Chanyeol takes it, easy, letting Yifan lead him. They’re several floors up, so he’s confused at first, but they pass through a door into an open space, the climbing spires of the palace behind them, the mountain soaring up ahead of them, the space in between a carefully manicured garden, fairy lights seeming to float along the paths, the soft glow making it all the more private, peaceful.

“I can see why it would be a favorite,” Chanyeol murmurs. “It’s beautiful.”

“I come here to think,” Yifan offers, after a moment, and Chanyeol remembers they’re touching, his hand on the crook of Yifan’s arm. “It is… peaceful.”

Chanyeol makes a warm sound, following Yifan’s lead easily down the dim path, taking in the night blooming flowers, the cool breeze. “I am sorry we have not found time to talk yet,” he says after a long moment’s consideration. “I hope we can remedy that in the coming days. I was very glad to have your invitation, and I hoped, ah, I hoped we could take the opportunity to become friends. I know your father and mine were – friends, I mean, and I think they would—”

“Be proud?” Yifan murmurs, as if he’s considering it as a possibility. He looks over at Chanyeol, and his eyes are dark in the soft light, like black pools reflecting back the fairy lights surrounding them, but Chanyeol sees fire there anyway, blazing hot behind Yifan’s somber expression. “I do not know if my father would be proud, if he were here to see it. But… perhaps he would be glad. Perhaps that is enough.”

Chanyeol tsks, mild, nudging Yifan’s shoulder. “It’s not all serious like this, is it?” he asks, almost whining, a grin on his lips. “I think making a friend is a good thing, and forget all the… diplomatic reasons for it, yes? I’d rather be friends for our own sake.”

“Friends, then,” Yifan agrees, and Chanyeol smiles, warm and bright, and doesn’t let himself wonder until much later if Yifan meant it, wanted it. If it was more than politics and momentousness with him. It was hard to guess.

Their first walk in the garden gives way to a second the next day; after the midday meal, Yifan excuses them both from his mother’s presence and Chanyeol is surprised but he goes more than willingly. They talk more – or Chanyeol talks, and he tries hard to keep Yifan engaged, to weasel out knowledge of the things he enjoys, the things he does from day to day, comparing their (admittedly similar) lives with warm interest.

“I am quite looking forward to the festival,” Chanyeol says, as they head slowly back inside. This part of the castle is quieter, not too many bustling servants or whispering courtiers, and he’s glad of it, a small portion of his attention on the way the walls are carved as if the rushing tides had passed through this hallway and smoothed curling waves into the very stone.

Yifan’s lips quirk up, just a fraction. “It will be a good one, I hope. I have been looking forward to it, as well.”

“Oh, does everyone loosen up for it?” Chanyeol teases, light. “I have been wondering if I will hear cheering and gaiety, or if a celebration here will be as carefully measured as daily life.” He’s surprised by Yifan’s laugh, warm and rumbling, tells himself he doesn’t feel it all down his spine or immediately imagine it against his throat, just like he doesn’t imagine Yifan purring in his ear, or Yifan’s hands— (dangerous, walking together, to think of such things).

“Yes, I promise, it is a very cheerful affair, nothing subdued at all.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Chanyeol murmurs, only half aware he’s talking really, feeling warm.

The dreams this night are intense, all bright heat and Yifan’s steady burning gaze, and when Chanyeol stumbles out onto his balcony in the crisp night air he thinks he sees something off in the distance, an immense black shape high above the valley, massive wings spread stark against the sky, like a void in the stars.

In the morning, the festival begins.

Up in the castle, they start their day as usual, although they’re expected at court much earlier than normal – festivities beginning, the Queen announcing their commencement from her balcony overlooking the courtyard, filled with knights and lesser nobles, more people spreading out to fill it, the gates open wide for the press of common folk, everyone dressed in blazing bright reds and oranges, dazzling. Chanyeol watches it all from the castle stairs, accompanied by Jongdae and a few others, Yifan not far with his own hangers on (including, Chanyeol notes, Jongdae’s young man, and he really should ask his name). The announcement is met with a roaring cheer, fireworks setting off from atop the ring walls in shimmering blasts, streams and colored paper like flower petals blanketing the crowd.

There is an awful lot, and today Chanyeol convinces Jongdae – rather, slips away and gives Jongdae no choice but to follow him – to go down into the rest of the city, to see the festival in truth. The markets are strung with sparkling lanterns, and food is shared in the streets, long tables spread with delicacies along the roads before the noble homes, open to anyone. A circle springs up almost of its own accord in the middle road of every tier of the city, people dancing and celebrating, singing and playing wild gay music. Chanyeol thoroughly enjoys himself, taking in everything he can before Jongdae convinces him back to the castle – there was to be a feast tonight, of course, and he had to be ready for it.

He wears orange, brocaded copper and gold, shimmering, the doublet specially made for this first feast, the bright white of his shirt peeking out through the slashes in the heavy fabric. He is seated, thankfully, beside Yifan, and uses the opportunity as best he can – regaling him with his morning spent down in the city, asking him warmly fascinated questions about this dance, this song, this food he had tried, then now about the courses of the feast set before them, which foods are traditional and which are simply favorites, specialties, which ones Yifan likes best, trying anything on his good opinion. The Queen speaks after the meal, warm wishes for the new year to come, blessings upon her guests, and special thanks for Chanyeol himself, which he thinks is much too kind – and then they’re free, music striking up as the nobles move to dance, and Chanyeol considers seriously if Yifan would indulge him… but no, perhaps not, not tonight at least.

He shifts closer to him, leaning into the table, things being quickly cleared away. “What do they do the first night, down in the city?” he asks.

“Well, much the same,” Yifan starts, serious, eyes on the court as if to study them. “There’s feasting, dancing, more music. They build bonfires in the courtyards.”

“We should go down and see,” Chanyeol suggests after another moment, quieter, conspiratorial, close to Yifan’s ear – this gets him attention, real attention, Yifan turning to look at him, serious brows drawn down.

“I don’t think that’s…”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be perfectly safe,” Chanyeol says, grinning. “Ah, or if you truly don’t wish to go, I will have my man accompany me, but…”

Yifan shakes his head, a sharp sort of disagreement, and stands before Chanyeol can even get his mouth shut. He excuses himself and Chanyeol to his mother, bowing, and Chanyeol has to rush to follow his lead, polite and charming before following Yifan out of the grand hall.

“Are you sure?” he asks, calls after him more like, hurrying to match Yifan’s rather determined stride.

Yifan wrinkles his nose. “If we’re going, then we ought to go.”

Chanyeol takes that as the most agreement he’ll possibly get, so he steals Yifan’s hand, and heads for the doors.

It’s not so hard to escape the castle relatively undetected – although there were guard on duty, they weren’t looking for people trying to slip out into the festivities, and why should they be? Chanyeol isn’t even sure they’re not supposed to go, it just seemed like something Yifan’s mother might have frowned upon, had she known.

There are bonfires – immense, glowing bright and towering high, sending spirals of smoke and sparks up into the night sky – and the city is studded with them, blazing rings of stars mirrored back on the earth below. He leads Yifan down through the city, easy as anything, and they’re quickly absorbed into the gaiety of the commoners, invited to their fires and offered their food, encouraged to dance with them. Chanyeol borrows someone’s gittern and plays a bright tune from his homeland, and although it’s clear no one knows it they’re all more than happy to dance to it. He pulls Yifan into the dance with him after, no longer content to be watched from the sidelines, the two of them whirling round with everyone else – a swirl of colors like autumn fire, weaving and turning around the crackling flame, and maybe neither of them have the easy grace of a dancer but it’s _fun_ and that’s what Chanyeol wanted, he wanted the dizzy churn of it all, the press of people, the exhilaration, and Yifan laughing gentle and low in his ear as they both try to catch their breath, off to the side again.

There are fireworks then, again, these ones blasting shimmering lights high into the sky above the castle, illuminating the icy stretch of mountainous stone beyond. In the excitement, Chanyeol isn’t watching the people around them, but the sky – and so he doesn’t see the dragons until they’re already there, people in weaving bending costumes, dancing and circling the fire together, the music growing in tempo.

It’s beautiful, and Chanyeol turns to say so, to admonish Yifan teasingly for not telling him this, but the look on the prince’s face stops him – pensive and thoughtful, frowning slightly, uncertain.

“Time to head back?” Chanyeol asks instead, softer, easy, and Yifan nods, and allows himself to be led.

The castle is quiet by comparison, although Chanyeol can still hear people laughing, music, as they walk empty corridors up to where their rooms are. Yifan pauses in front of his door, still looking disquieted, and Chanyeol thinks… well.

“Come sit with me a moment?” he requests, because he feels he has nothing to lose, truly.

Yifan looks surprised, almost, but he nods, and Chanyeol lets him in, shooing him to sit and idly pouring them both a glass of wine. The sunroom is warm enough, a fire clearly built when they had left the feast not quite burned down yet, and he stokes it after he’s handed Yifan his glass, before sitting down. 

“You didn’t know about the dragons?” he asks, diplomatically gentle.

Yifan’s nose wrinkles. “I did not.”

Chanyeol tilts his head to the side, considering, trying to read his expression. He sips his wine. “It’s… insulting?”

“Why would you say that?” Yifan counters, frowning again, but Chanyeol only shrugs.

“It’s just the look on your face. I’m not sure. Either you’re just surprised or you feel… mocked, and I’m not sure why.”

Yifan’s frown smooths out, slowly, and he watches Chanyeol over the rim of his glass, considering. “Do you not know?” he asks.

Chanyeol opens his mouth, almost, almost speaks, and then – and then. Did he not know? There was something in Yifan’s eyes, in his tone, in his demeanor – they had spent some time together, yes, but he had thought it would be a little harder to win Yifan’s trust, to get him to open up, and it had almost (only almost) been… easy. The dreams come back, unbidden, all heat and flame and the Dragon’s wide wings spreading out behind Yifan, obscuring him because – because –

Because, of course. Why would he feel the dragons down in the street mocked him? Because he was the Dragon. The one in Chanyeol’s dreams, and the one he had seen circling high above the city.

“I think I do,” he says, quieter, and Yifan’s eyes are still on him, the fire still burning hotter in the hearth, the sounds of music and laughter drifting up from the city outside his windows—

Chanyeol wakes up in his bed.

He sits up, frowning, confused and rumbled, realizing he’s half in his dress clothes from the night before still – shoes and doublet and jewelry removed, everything else left on, and he moves to get up, frowning, shuffling through to the dayroom, where there are no wineglasses, but the fire has burned out in the hearth.

He doesn’t know what happened.

He doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, and oh it rankles, the thought that perhaps it had all been a dream, some fancy of his sleeping mind, perhaps Yifan had parted ways from him at his door and—

But no, no, he remembers them coming in, he remembers their talk, and some of it must have happened, _something_ must have happened, or…

It’s very early, but he washes quickly, pulls on fresh clothes for the day – red and silver, bright, he can already hear people beginning the festivities once more outside the castle, or perhaps they never stopped – and he heads down the hall to see – Yifan’s door open as he reaches it.

The other Prince is all in black today, a dragon embroidered on his robes, swirling, tangled around him. A trap and a promise.

“What did you do?” Chanyeol asks, and Yifan – Yifan scowls, looking away, sheepish almost, something.

“You fell asleep,” he says, which doesn’t feel true, or like all of the truth. “I put you to bed. I hope I did not overstep, but I did not wish to find your gentleman, or…”

Chanyeol shakes his head. “You didn’t. Overstep. But…”

Yifan looks at him, eyes serious, dark. “That is all,” he says.

Chanyeol nods, but he doesn’t agree, not deep down. He follows after Yifan anyway, down to breakfast with the Queen.

The festival lasts the whole week through. There are more fireworks, more dances, a long play in the courtyard, pretend battles and elaborate jests, and Chanyeol goes down into the city as often as he can slip away, bringing Jongdae and – it was Minseok, wasn’t it? – with him more often than not, the three of them coaxing Yifan down more than once more, but Chanyeol cannot get him alone – cannot get him close, cannot speak to him, cannot convince him to admit…

What? That he had put Chanyeol to sleep somehow? That they had discussed that he was a _dragon_ , a tale so fanciful that Chanyeol must have dreamed it?

And he doesn’t, he doesn’t dream it again, he doesn’t dream hardly anything – except the naughtier dreams, surprising in their heat, surprising in the want they fill him with in his waking hours, not just for release but for a kiss, a touch, a soft word. Yifan had him undone, somehow, without trying very hard at all.

The festival finally ends with another feast, and this time the whole court is outside too – long tables set up in the courtyard covered in the wide bounty of the valley, the Queen’s table up atop the high stairs, so she could survey her people as they came to eat and drink and be merry. Chanyeol loves it, naturally, has enjoyed all of the festivities – this was the sort of thing he felt important, sharing with the people, celebrating together all the good of the long year before the cold winter months swept in. And it is different here, so different, but some sneaking little voice keeps whispering that he could learn it, learn to love it, learn to appreciate the icy mountain winds and the threatening snow, the low valley full of crisp leaves and farmland, the rushing snaking river that sung through it all the way down to his father’s sea…

“You look pensive,” Yifan points out, quiet, standing close to him, and Chanyeol had not noticed him before, had thought himself overlooked at the sidelines, watching the people enjoy the feast.

“I was just thinking, I have quite enjoyed my time here,” he starts, careful, considering. “I will be… I will miss it, when I must go.”

Yifan’s dark eyes follow him, as if he means to memorize Chanyeol’s expression, thoughtful and calculating and…

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, for now,” he says, with some difficulty, and Chanyeol’s eyebrows arch.

“Only for now, your highness?”

Yifan looks – discomfited. Awkward, almost. “Yes, well. That is – there was, of course, a reason you were invited, and…”

Chanyeol tries not to look surprised, or like he’s aching for Yifan to finish his point. “Oh yes? It was not simply my charming company that you desired?”

“No,” Yifan says, giving him a look of askance that Chanyeol feels immensely pleased about, “My mother wishes – she thinks, ah, that a marriage arrangement would be… preferable, between our two countries, and I thought…”

“That you’d like to know me better first?”

“Before I _agreed_ , it just seemed—”

“No, no, I’m glad,” Chanyeol says, smiling warmly, shaking his head. “I am very glad we got the chance.”

Yifan licks his lips, a little frown turning the soft corners down, and looks back at the festivities – dying down now slowly, the night darkening. “If you must know,” he adds, finally, “I intend to go through with it.”

Chanyeol flushes, just a little, half surprised somehow. “I am glad to hear that, too,” he murmurs, cheeks hot, all of it feeling – well. He had certainly not expected it, any more than he’d expected to be in a position to marry someone he was interested in, attracted to – or had met in person, if he was honest with himself.

Yifan shakes his head a little bit, and offers him his arm. “Back inside?” he suggests, rather gently.

“Yes, I think so,” Chanyeol murmurs, taking his arm, and follows him in.

The next day is as he perhaps expected – meetings with the Queen, official and serious, treaties and agreements drawn up for him to return to his father, and Chanyeol is privately pleased that she approves of the match, and seems happy that he was amenable to it.

He catches Yifan after a very long day of meetings, linking arms with him and steering him out toward the gardens. “I’m sure you’re not busy, your highness, come walk with me…”

“Prince – This is –”

“A surprise? Certainly, but you need a little surprise in your life, I think.”

Yifan scowls, and Chanyeol feel accomplished.

“So, I have to ask you, because I think – I think you revealed something to me, and you want me to forget it, or think it was a dream, or—”

“It was a dream,” Yifan interjects, serious, sighing when Chanyeol seems about to protest more. “It was a dream. We went into your rooms, and… I was nervous. I made you fall asleep, and I put you to bed. But I let you… I let you think we were talking.”

Chanyeol pulls in a sharp breath. “So, the other dreams, they were really you, too?”

“Some of them,” Yifan admits, reluctant, looking away. “It’s not always intentional. It’s… it happens when there’s… strong feelings involved.”

Chanyeol wonders if desire is the kind of feeling that could be involved, but oh, he cannot ask that. “So the field, the dragon… those were you, really you.”

“Yes.”

“And you are. I mean, I saw you the other night. There really is a dragon and it’s—”

“Me, yes. It’s a… it marks me as the next king.”

“So your mother…?”

Yifan wrinkles his nose. “She had it in her youth, yes. When I was born, it passed to me.”

Chanyeol thinks of a dozen, a hundred more questions, all wanting to bubble out of his mouth at once. “Thank you,” he says instead, voice warm with feeling. “For trusting me.” There would be plenty of time for questions. For every question. When they were married.

“So you see why it’s – why we can be married. I know you didn’t ask, but. Whoever the mark of the dragon is passed to will be the next ruler, after me. It was only chance that my mother was also queen.”

Chanyeol nods along, and he had wondered – it was one thing for him, after all. His sister would marry and her child would rule after her, so he could be easily married off for a strong alliance. But Yifan had no siblings he had met.

“You’re not… afraid, or anything?” Yifan presses, as their pace slows, the garden quiet around them.

Chanyeol blinks, looking up instantly, shaking his head. “Afraid? No. Not at all.”

Yifan relaxes almost visibly, tension in his shoulders easing, and Chanyeol thinks – he doesn’t want Yifan to worry about this at all.

“My father will agree to the terms. Next time we see each other, it will be to be married – you need not doubt that. So long as you can stand me,” he teases, and Yifan scoffs, “then I shall be yours.”

Yifan’s dark eyes meet his again, and Chanyeol – he takes the chance. He presses forward, into his space, and catches Yifan’s lips in a kiss, sweet and hot and slow, only a little tentative, his hands finding his waist even as Yifan’s tangle in his hair. When they part, he’s panting, soft, eyes on Yifan’s mouth, very aware of the heat between them, the lack of space.

“When we see each other next,” Yifan breathes out, firm, and he very carefully puts that space back between them, fingers smoothing his rumpled hair before slipping from it, “then you’ll be mine.”

Chanyeol has to go home in the morning, a long journey with his knights and men and Jongdae pining and wistful the whole ride, but it doesn’t matter – he’s looking forward, far forward, hopeful, and that future will come for him soon.


End file.
